Still, Dariöm called it a success. Ebaan’s business with the slave ended well. The tajéruun knew better than to inconvenience the master of the greatest open portal of the Arayat outside the control of the Temple. Besides, sending the slave back into the world after a two week stay in Metranos must have caused severe dehydration that required time to recover. And time was in short supply for the slave, for the medallion of subjection in his arm would take advantage of his weakened condition and take control of him. By tomorrow, I will pluck him like a child plucks an apple. As simple as that.
The only shadow in this otherwise successful enterprise was the death toll in Ezoi at the hands of the Kerta priest. He knew Aliolos was up to something, and he also knew the Kerta priest had been dumping the bodies into mass graves to hide them from view, but there was very little that could be hidden from the tajéruun. Negotiating with Aliolos was out of the question, for the priest was dangerous and unstable. Dariöm had gone to the Temple of Baal in Parithen, the capital of Mycene, and had lodged a formal complaint. The first servant had told him they would look into it. That meant the Temple would not stop Aliolos, but they would clean up after him. Still, three thousand people was not a number so easily forgotten. He sighed. The Temple would properly dispose of the bodies, but the league would have to make sure that mouths remained shut. The tajéruun would be disbursing gold diegans to the citizenry to help them overcome their fear and anger, gold that would come from his own purse. Galliöm will be satisfied, and satisfying Galliöm means a greater share of power for me. Dariöm’s ultimate ambition was to succeed Galliöm, and keeping his master happy could be expensive at times, but unavoidable if he wanted to become the league’s supreme master.
He returned to his small camp, where hired mercenaries kept watch over his expansive tent. He ate, bathed, took care of a few administrative tasks, and was preparing to go to bed when the cover of his silver box of medallions snapped open. Five dark medallions rose in the air and hovered in a semicircle behind his desk. A ray of white light shot out from each of their centers, and the five rays combined and formed an intense white spot on the ground below. The spot then stretched up and became a vertical ellipse, big enough to frame a massref. The contour of the ellipse became as thick as a man’s finger, and the white haze dissipated from its surface. Peering into it, Dariöm saw a wide room built with dark glittering stones. A master portal! he thought shocked. Who would dare open one in my presence, and without my consent?
Sarand the Soloist stepped into the tent. Her white silk dress was covered with pulsating purple veins. Power flashed from the tall gray staff she held and from the ram’s horns on the helmet that hid her face. She was wearing a necklace with a single white medallion that was throbbing with power.
Immediately, Dariöm raised his twelve layers of spells as he stood to his feet and bowed.
“Lady Sarand,” he said, placing a hand on his heart, “it is an honor.”
Sarand scoffed. “Do not mock me, tajèr,” she said softly, her voice crackling with restrained power. “Your constant interference no longer amuses me. I want you to hand the slave over to Aliolos. He is on his way as we speak.”
Aliolos is working for Sarand then. This explains why the High Priest at Parithen refused to intervene. “I apologize, Lady Sarand, for any inconvenience I may have caused you. I am but a lowly servant following my master’s orders with whom, I am certain, you would enjoy speaking.”
Sarand leaned her staff forward and Dariöm saw his layers of spells part before the power of the staff. Sarand laughed dismissively. “It is as easy for me to move through your layers of defenses as it is for a child to move through curtains.” She reached out and placed a finger on his forehead. “For the last time, I am warning you, tajèr, step aside—”
A thunderclap boomed through the room. A layer of power harder than the hardest steel nearly sliced her finger off. An unearthly hound appeared, taller than a horse and darker than the darkest night. It stood ready to pounce, its eyes of gleaming jasper were trained on Sarand. The Soloist’s eyes widened in an expression of utter surprise.
The creature, she knew, was a la’aan, a mighty foe that should have gone extinct a long time ago. She looked at the tajèr with renewed respect and wondered how far the tajèr ventured inside the Spell-World to find that hound. In what dark corner of the Arayat had he managed to find him? All at once, Sarand realized that the Tajéruun's knowledge of magic was far more extensive than she had previously understood.
Created during the siege of Ea over five thousand years ago by the Lords of the Pit, the Temple had long thought the la’aans to be extinct or lost in the depth of the Arayat. Sarand stayed her wrath, for even if these bestial creatures were half as strong as the legend made them out to be, they were not to be trifled with, not even by her. Once trained on a prey, the la’aan wielded the power of a thousand curses with which it tore through layers of protective spells and then used its brute Arayatian force to immobilize and drag its victim to its master in the Spell World. They were said to be deaf and mostly blind, insensitive to the Adorant’s haunting voices, and could only be stopped when destroyed.
Dariöm rose to his full height and faced Sarand. He knew he had to walk a fine line, for he did not want to alienate the Temple, which was, after all, the tajéruun’s best customer. Still, he could not yield to her demand and he needed to find common ground.
“Lady Sarand,” he said soothingly. “I wish we could set aside these unpleasantnesses. I would love to be of service to you, My Lady. Please tell me how I may fulfill your wish? How can I be of service?”
Sarand gritted her teeth but knew that negotiation, instead of a direct confrontation, was the path to take. “What do you want with the slave?”
“I am to bring him to Master Galliöm.”
The Soloist smiled a thin, wrathful smile. He will have me confront Galliöm who is a far greater threat than he. “I wish for Aliolos to ask the slave a few questions. That is all.”
Dariöm bowed. He knew Sarand would not let him conduct the interrogation. “That could be arranged, My Lady, provided I am allowed to protect the integrity of the slave’s mind during the questioning. Aliolos is known to, how shall I say this? Handle the package a bit roughly? Imagine what Galliöm would say if I brought him spoiled merchandise.”
So you can learn what I want to know, she thought. Oh no, you don’t. “You may keep your merchandise unspoiled as long as I have my answer. During the interrogation, Aliolos will set a curse-perimeter to protect him—you know, my dear Dariöm— from curious eavesdroppers, which would be inconvenient. As a keeper of great secrets, I am certain you understand the need for privacy.”
“Of course, My Lady, I have no objection to your request.” As if there is a curse-perimeter that my medallions cannot break into.
“Very well. I think we have come to terms then.” When you break through my perimeter, as I know you will, I’ll have a surprise waiting for you.
“My Lady,” said Dariöm with a slight hesitation in his voice, “what of the terms of payment?” He smiled sheepishly. “After all, a tajèr has got to make a living.”
“Get me what I need, and I will direct the Office of the Treasury to compensate you,” she said innocently.
Dariöm bowed. Oh well, it was worth a try. He knew that Galliöm would not want Sharr to know about this particular transaction, which meant Sarand would never report it to the Office of the Treasury, and this, in turn, meant the Temple would not pay him.
Sarand stepped back through the portal that then vanished in a loud snap. The five medallions fell to the carpet where they glowed brightly for a brief moment. Hurriedly, Dariöm picked them up and examined the carpet he had purchased for a small treasure from Master Kwadil. He breathed a sigh of relief; the carpet was intact and he had survived his meeting with Sarand. The purchase of the la’aan from Galliöm had cost him half his fortune, but he knew that if he wanted to move up in the sphere of influence and power, he would ha
ve to survive attacks such as these. Gold is regret and punishment to the dead, who left it behind, and good fortune for the living, who profit by it. This was one of the old tajéruun proverbs he liked most. “All in all, this meeting with Sarand went well. She was pacified, and I’ve managed to keep control over the slave.”
Early the following morning, Dariöm left his tent and crossed the short distance to the Massrifuuns’ observation post. The news was good. The slave had not left his spot all night and had not moved an inch since. Carefully, the tajèr approached the ruin and peeked through a dilapidated window. There on the floor, lay the slave under a black cover. His breathing was labored and tremors racked his body.
Good, thought Dariöm, very good. He is at the last stage of his resistance to the medallion. A few more hours and it will be all over. Quietly, he withdrew from the ruins and returned to the tent to manage his affairs. By early afternoon his guardians announced they had spotted Aliolos and the khoblysses a few miles down the road. Dariöm got up, set his desk in order, and instructed his men to break camp and be ready to move. Then he donned his thick dark cloak and grabbed the special neck ring he used when subduing slaves, and went out to complete the task of bringing the slave, bound and shackled, to his master.
“To suppose that a Solitary is weak when alone, or vulnerable because he is in foreign territory, is to suppose that a scorpion is inoffensive because he is a loner, or could be sideswept because he is small. Once provoked, a Solitary is deadly.”
–Diplomatic Notes, Uziguzi, first adviser of her Majesty, Aylul Meïr Pen, Empress of the Empyreans.
The sun began to set behind the hills when at last Aliolos and his otherworldly assistants reached the spot on the road closest to the ruin. Even though Aliolos was inside a comfortable carriage, he was panting as if he had been in a sprint. Beads of sweat covered his swollen forehead, and his cheeks were so puffed, he could barely open his eyes. Dariöm had to exercise the greatest self-control to avoid turning his face in sheer disgust. The carriage had no benches and Aliolos squatted like an oversized toad. Incense burned continuously from a silver censer, and its acrid smell filled the cabin with a grayish cloud. No doubt a spell-barrier, the tajèr thought.
“Welcome, Master Aliolos,” he said bowing. “I trust your journey has been pleasant?”
A sickening gurgle answered him.
“The journey was not pleasant,” whispered one of the khoblyss in a voice strikingly similar to that of a Kerta priest. “Aliolos cannot talk.”
Dariöm forced a controlled smile. “My sincerest apologies for the inconvenience this trip has caused you. The good news is the slave is incapacitated. I assure you, he will offer no resistance.”
“The mistress spoke with Aliolos,” the khoblyss whispered in a harsh metallic voice. “Aliolos will not damage the slave.”
Dariöm bowed obsequiously. “My master will be much obliged. Do you wish to rest from your trip before you meet with the slave or—”
“Aliolos will rest. Aliolos hungry.”
The tajèr was a hardened man from childhood. His great-uncle had sold him as a slave to a cloth merchant, who whipped the young boy as often as he fed him, until the child in Dariöm died. Only a wraith remained, a youth who murdered his master and then killed his way to the Zakiruun, thanks to an extraordinary memory that never forgot the slightest visual detail, sound, or word. A mere ten years later, he was inducted into the Order of the Tajéruun, and two decades later, he sat on wealth so immense, it could have made him king twice over. He enjoyed wealth, a life of luxury, and delicately prepared food.
Aliolos, like most Kerta priests, found no pleasure in anything he ate. But there was one joy-filled memory that survived from his childhood: The peaceful afternoons when he and his twin brother would sit under an apple tree and listen to each other crunch a fresh, crisp, tasty apple. That sound was all that was left, all he could hold on to, the only small candle brightly lit in his deadened soul. He could no longer see what he was eating, nor taste what he was swallowing, but he could hear the crunch, and what did it matter if he were grinding and breaking bones? What did it matter if he ate the chicken raw? With every movement of his powerful jaws, he was back, back under the apple tree with his twin brother, the brother whose name he could no longer remember, the face he had all but forgotten, the brother, the poet, the fool he had willingly sacrificed to join the order of the Kerta priests.
Like all those whose souls decay and die when they surrender to the slow, corrosive despair borne out of a meaningless existence, or a deep sense of loss, Dariöm was hollow. Within him, he only saw a dark space where the echoes of the Pit raged scornfully at the world, at existence, at himself. He enjoyed nothing save his power and the rush when taking greater and greater risks. Yet, even this man, whom neither pity nor disgust could move, this man, who had no more care for the well-being of kin and friends than a rock for another rock, this hardened man was unable to withstand the sight of Aliolos crunching through a chicken like a mad beast. As he stood outside the tent, surrounded by the khoblysses, hearing the mind-numbing flaying of meat, for one brief moment, Dariöm’s soul was revived and he looked around him wondering what he was doing there, why he obeyed Galliöm’s orders so slavishly, without concern for anything or anyone else. A slave in king’s garments, he thought, this is what I have become. A slave who is no freer than a moth caught in the flame. My soul burns and how I wish the ember of this fire could burn this world and purify it.
But the glow faded, the light was snuffed, and hope died in an implosion of darkness. Aliolos emerged from the tent, his face bloodied, his frigid smile frozen like the depths of the Pit.
“Ready,” he said.
Dariöm bowed his head and the deadly convoy moved like a funeral procession toward the ruins, toward the Solitary, the former slave who was the Seer of Power.
Inside the dilapidated barn, a still, dark form lay on a rotted wood floor. Dark shadows licked the wood in random patterns, the sole remnant of the great fire that had ravaged the structure. The stone walls had crumbled on three sides and the fourth was a dilapidated facade where, oddly, a window stood intact as if it had left for a quiet stroll while the fire burned. The main beam of the cathedral ceiling, charred and fissured, held precariously and a few lattices still hung overhead.
Inside the space, on a slightly raised platform, a body lay under a black cover which was seized by intermittent tremors, a sign that life still flowed in the body beneath it.
Outside the ruin, silence was dense like a thick wall. Oppressive. Neither insects, critters, nor furtive beasts came near that spot as if it had been suspended outside of time. Dariöm walked behind his strange companions, trying not to step in the slick decomposing slime the khoblyss left behind them. Up ahead, rejuvenated and energized, Aliolos moved like a general about to visit a conquered city. His body shook under the restraint.
Sarand had visited the Kerta priest the day before and had somehow cowed his ambitions, but Aliolos was still hopeful that he could wrest control of the khoblysses with the help of Dariöm. Even if he no longer feared his mistress, he was compelled to obey her by a magic that escaped his understanding. Suddenly, he felt the presence of Ahiram. “He is close,” he muttered as a shiver went through him. “Deal with Sarand first,” he repeated to himself. “Enjoy slave later.”
As they drew closer to the ruin, they were met by a field of whitethorns, gnarly small trees flaunting their spikes in every direction like wily dancers frozen by a cursed wind. Aliolos veered right, careful not to touch them, and wound his way to the house. Dariöm glanced behind and saw his massrifuun closing in. He did not know how a confrontation between the massrifuun and the khoblysses would end, but their presence reassured him.
They all drew close to the ruin. If he heard them, the slave did not react. Both Aliolos and Dariöm scanned the surroundings for any spell, curse, or magical shield of protection but found none. I doubt this slave is skilled in the magic of concealment, thought Da
riöm. He knew firsthand what it took to conceal a la’aan from Sarand, and the slave was simply too young and inexperienced. No, we’re not sensing the presence of a magical barrier simply because there isn’t any.
Dariöm quickly joined Aliolos as the Kerta priest strode confidently into the ruin. His agreement with Sarand allowed Aliolos to interrogate the slave, but he needed to stay nearby in case the Kerta priest exceeded his bounds. The four khoblysses glided in and stood by Aliolos while the three massrifuun fanned out, one standing behind Dariöm, one at the extreme left of the group, and the other at the extreme right.
The tajèr spoke softly. “As agreed, Master Aliolos, you are permitted to ask your questions, but you cannot …”
The slave’s arm suddenly shot up. Dariöm’s hand went to his dagger, while the Kerta priest clenched his fists. No one moved. Seeing the medallion embedded in the slave’s arm, the moneyman knew this was his quarry. Incredible! He still resists! The medallion has not fully sunk into his flesh. I will …
The arm dropped. They heard a deafening boom as the remnants of the walls behind them exploded. Swiftly, they turned around. The khoblysses and the massrifuun followed suit. Their combined magical power effortlessly repelled the wave of debris. The central beam collapsed and they disposed of it just as easily. As the dust settled, the tajèr and the priest faced their slumped victim.
Dariöm smiled contemptuously. “For a Solitary, you disappoint me. Do you take us for frivolous thieves without means and power? Now that you have had your fill with your antics, it is time to surrender and obey. My friend, Aliolos has a few simple questions for you, which you will answer quickly, then you and I have business elsewhere.”
The slumped form before them did not react.
I hope he’s not dead, Dariöm thought as he glanced at Aliolos and nodded. The Kerta priest stepped onto the platform. Dariöm followed. Aliolos focused his mind on that of the slave, trying to bring him into subjection, and frowned. A dull barrier blocked his attempt, a barrier he had never seen before in any of his victims. He tried again, and again, but the barrier stopped him each time. He lightly drew on the strength of the khoblysses and magnified his attack, only to be repelled disdainfully.
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 30